


Letter for Letter

by triedunture



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: Epistolary, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-30
Updated: 2009-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-04 01:00:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While apart for some time, Bertie and Jeeves agree to write each other dirty letters. Inspired by <a href="http://johnhamilton.us/2/jamesjoyceletters.htm">James Joyce's freaky correspondence</a>. Strangely enough, mine is not as freaky as Joyce's?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letter for Letter

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fic](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/tag/fic), [jeeves](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/tag/jeeves)  
  
---|---  
  
_ **Jooster Epistolary Fic: Letter for Letter** _

Title: Letter for Letter  
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster  
Rating: NC-17  
Length: 4,300 words  
Warnings: Epistolary fic, dirty talk (writing?)   
Summary: While apart for some time, Bertie and Jeeves agree to write each other dirty letters. Inspired by [James Joyce's freaky correspondence](http://johnhamilton.us/2/jamesjoyceletters.htm). Strangely enough, mine is not as freaky as Joyce's?

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;  


London, England  
May 9, 1924

Dearest Jeeves,

You have scarcely been gone from the Wooster HQ for twenty-four hours, but the bitter pang of longing has already settled in my chest and, indeed, was there from the moment the door closed behind you. Dash it, I know it's only proper for you to have these annual holidays, Jeeves, and of course you deserve a thousand annual holidays for all you do for me. But I wish these vacations weren't so bally long and required you to be so bally far away. Are you enjoying Spain? I hope you are, and that you aren't: the first because I do like to see you return home rested, fit, and tan, and the second because I cling to the silly dream that you'll return sooner than planned if all goes wrong and it rains for seven days straight.

Well. At least I can take comfort in the little pact we made, eh, Jeeves?

My word, it's difficult to get this ball rolling, so to speak. I mean to say, one spends hours and hours tossing and turning in bed at night, thinking of all sorts of things to put down on paper in a letter like this. And in one's head, all the lines sound rather corking and fruity. But when one is sitting at one's desk, actually about to write the thing, it all sounds a bit thick. What I'm getting at here, Jeeves, is that I'm rather nervous; I've never done anything like this before, and I hope I can carry it off in the proper way.

The best I can do is give it a try, what?

Jeeves, I don't imagine you could know this, but the sheets on my bed have retained your special scent, so that while I was tossing and turning last night, I was engulfed by the smell of you, my crisp and warm valet. I could bury my face in the pillow that you usually employ, the one on the right, and pretend that it was your soft hair under my nose. I did do this, in fact, and found myself wanting you the way I always do at night when we lie close together. Oh, Jeeves, I would have given anything to have had you next to me at that moment. But instead I had only my untalented and un-Jeeves-like hand, and I pulled at myself until I'd come against the pillow that smelled of you.

Please, love, write to me as soon as you are able. I admit to being very red-cheeked at the moment, and it would be a weight off my mind if perhaps you could tell me of a similar state in which you find yourself without me.

Awaiting you now,  
Bertie

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;

Marbella, Spain  
May 11, 1924

Mr Wooster:

I have received your letter and thank you very much, sir, for the correspondence. I am indeed having an enjoyable stay on the coast. The weather continues fine. I do, however, look forward to the comforts of home at the end of my visit.

Wishing you well,  
R. Jeeves

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;

Telegram dated May 13, 23.45 from W1 London to _Marbella, La Comuidad Andalucía_:

JEEVES STOP WE HAD A PACT DASH IT STOP

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;

Marbella, Spain  
May 13, 1924

Mr Wooster:

Your telegram has just now been delivered, and I'm writing to you now to correct the oversight of my previous letter. You are right, of course, sir. We did make a pact. However, I admit I did not consider at the time of our promise how difficult such an act would prove. You know me, sir, perhaps better than I know myself. Picture me, your faithful Jeeves, your model of propriety and self-restraint, endeavouring to fulfill the task which I now have before me. It is like trying to force a stone to swim in a river instead of sinking to the bottom.

I see now that it would be unfair of me to shirk this duty even as you bravely plunge forward. As I opened that first letter from you, sir, my pen knife wavered in my shaking hand as I thought about what you might have written. I half expected you to have shied away from it in the end, as I have never known you to speak of those baser acts aloud. Even when you are at your most vulnerable, it is the small sounds that fall from your lips, not foul words or curses, that my ears catch. I cherish those sounds, sir, but I cherished your letter in a wholly different fashion. The image of you alone in bed fills me with pity. And with desire.

It is lonely here in the village. I have taken a small cottage for the duration of my stay, and it is situated on a very pleasing spot near the docks, where I have access to any number of small fishing vessels that might be rented at will. I have done a good deal of shrimping in the early mornings, usually followed by some relaxing fishing in the shallows or a stroll down the beach. In the course of a day, I do not cross paths with many people, and the few encounters I have are simple greetings due to my limited Spanish. In the past I might have relished this chance to be alone with my thoughts for any length of time, but this year's holiday has left me feeling considerably distracted.

I suppose you are to blame for that.

I do apologise, sir. It seems I cannot complete this letter in the way you wish. If it is agreeable to you, I will attempt to endear myself to you when I return to London so that you might forgive me this breach. Would that I could convey to you in words exactly how I feel. For this, I am sorry.

R.J.

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;

London, England  
May 16, 1924

Jeeves, you silly ass,

It's not as difficult as you're making it out to be. Mind you, that first letter was a chore for me to write, but once you get the hang of it, it all pours out. Rather like a confession, I suppose. Why don't you just start simply, Jeeves? You say you didn't fully expect my letter to contain anything untoward. Did it shock you? Did you read it only once and then cast it into the fire, or did you scan that short page several times, committing it to memory?

It occurs to me that perhaps you didn't like my letter one bit and you're digging your heels in because you don't wish to encourage any more of this talk. If that is true, Jeeves, you need only tell me so. I won't be angry, and we can put the whole bally thing out of our minds.

But--and I point this out because I have read and reread your last letter many times--I don't think that was the case. You say you felt desire, Jeeves, whilst thinking of me alone in my bed. I admit that, after I had finished putting the Wooster seal on the thing, I also felt that familiar surge of need.

At any rate, I have a sneaking suspicion that the desire my first letter caused you led to an act which I would not be averse to hearing about in your next missive to me, Jeeves. Did you dream of me and the bed here in the London flat, or was your mind filled with images of those tanned and oiled young men that seem to populate the coast of Spain this time of year? It would be all right, Jeeves, if it were the latter; you could tell me without shame here, in these letters of ours, which are the best places for our secrets, the things we think of in the dark.

The young master would put his foot solidly down, of course, on the actual practice of you taking a sleek Spanish boy for yourself during your holiday. But I must admit that, if we're only imagining (and that is all we can do within these flat and lifeless pages), it's a corking image to dance across the Wooster brain. There you would be, still a bit pale from the long year spent in Old Blighty, and wrapped round your impressive physique could be some dark-haired imp, hungry for you just as I am. Perhaps you would roll him in the sand of that beach of yours, which, if it's as empty as you say, would be a fine place for a spot of carnal whatsit. Or would you rather take him back to that rented cottage and proceed to muss the place up a bit?

Does any of this aid you in coming up with fodder for your next letter? I ask because I do wish to hear from you, Jeeves. Even if you refuse to see this little pact of ours through, I would still very much like to see your handwriting on some paper to remind me that you are thinking of me. If you simply cannot bring yourself to put in writing the type of sordid daydream I described here, then please don't worry, and just tell me more about this shrimping business of yours, or whatever you would like to tell me.

I miss you dreadfully, old thing.

Yours,  
Bertie

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;

Telegram dated May 20, 15.45 from _Marbella, La Comuidad Andalucía_ to W1 London:

SIR STOP PLEASE DO NOT OPEN THE LETTER STOP BURN IT UPON RECEIPT STOP I BEG THIS FAVOUR OF YOU STOP

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;

Marbella, Spain  
May 19, 1924

Beloved:

You do me a great kindness to offer a route by which I might escape my promise to you, but I cannot leave you wanting. I can hear, in the spaces between the lines of your last letter, that you wish me to throw myself into this performance as whole-heartedly as you have done. It has taken me several hours of honest self-reflection in the quiet of this little cottage, with the wind whipping across the mouth of the chimney and the rain lashing against the window-panes, to persuade myself to again take up my pen.

I will endeavour to work towards your will, sir. If I am somehow lacking in this enterprise, you must forgive me; I am not practised in these sorts of correspondence. However, I will trust the gentle suggestions in your previous letter and begin with that. (I have not, by the way, cast your letters into the fire. I am keeping them hidden in the depths of my valise.)

You ask, in your charmingly oblique manner, if I came off while reading your letters. I tell you now that I did so. Several times.

But that is not important right now. What matters to me is your dogged fantasy of me taking a Spanish lover. You call it a mere daydream, but I might detect a hint of anxiety in your words. Do you honestly believe, Bertram, that I have thought of having anyone but you since I arrived here? My thoughts, when they wander, do so only to you, to your body, to the way you cry out for me when I am right there with you, sucking your cock or bringing you off with my hand. When I think of that filthy salt taste in my mouth, it is not some faceless Spaniard I envision pleasuring with my tongue; it is always you.

If it is not I that will stray in this fashion, perhaps it is you, my dear master. Are you the one who wants another lover to replace me while I'm gone? Do you think of inviting Mr Winship to the flat to bend you over the chaise lounge? Do you imagine being spread on the lid of the piano and fucked by Mr Potter-Pirbright?

No, it is my opinion that Mr Potter-Pirbright, if he were to agree to any liaison with you, would request to be the one spread on the piano for you. You could do it, sir, if you wished, without it ever coming to my knowledge. And you would be perfectly within your rights; you are only human, and I am gone a very long time. You might even be entwined in such a depraved act the moment I come home from holiday, a day or so early. What would you do, Bertram, if I found you fucking another man in our flat? Would you offer me the both of you as recompense? Would you pull your cock from that willing body and insist I take a turn? I just might be swayed, sir, if you would use your wondrous fingers on me as I finished the job you began.

But these are just the mad imaginings of a man trapped inside on a rainy night. It would be foolish to think you capable of that, Bertram. But I want you to know that you are not the only one of us that dreams of these twisted things in the dark hours. I want you, so I cannot imagine any number of men not wanting you as well, and when I'm far from home, my jealousy grows in my breast, turning into these fantasies where I might exert my will.

I would rather concentrate my energies on those thoughts which are entirely pleasant to me, and involve only the two of us.

Lately, I find myself thinking of the last time we made love before I departed on my annual leave. Is it my faulty memory ascribing details that did not exist, or did you really ride me like a complete wanton that night? I relive every moment with painstaking care as I go about the mindless business of shrimping and fishing: you on your back, naked but for the braces that had somehow tangled up in your ankles in your haste to rip your clothes from your body. How I loved torturing you that night, Bertram, exploring your skin so slowly when all you wanted was sweating, grinding ecstasy. Do you remember the great cockstand this gave you, and how I lapped at it for what might have been hours? I paid particular attention, sir, to the moments when my tongue would drift just an eighth of an inch lower than necessary, just a bit past the root of you. I let the tip of my tongue graze your bollocks, just a whisper of a touch that might have even been an accident. But I will tell you now, it was no accident; I was rapt with the study of you, cataloging your every breath, your every tremor of muscle. And I believe I discovered that night, sir, what you want but cannot give voice to. You want me to dip my head lower, and to lick at your hole the way I do your cock. I can see it in the way your hips wriggle unconsciously into position when I'm near to where you want me; you open your legs like whores do, my beautiful, silent master. Why do you not tell me, order me, to pleasure you in every filthy way you wish? You need only give me a flick of your eyebrow, and it would be enough to cause me, in a moment like that one, to lap at your tiny hole. Oh, how you will shout, Bertram, when I at last do this for you.

I dream of doing it the instant I arrive home at the end of the month. I will open the front door, and instead of finding you with another man (which is a preposterous thing to imagine), you will be there, waiting in your dressing gown for me, bare underneath. I could have you the moment I shut the door, spinning you round and pushing your cheek against the cool wall while I tear your dressing gown from you and kneel between your spread legs. Would that be payment enough, for leaving my dearest alone for so many weeks? I would even wash the wall when I was through, for surely you would have spent yourself against it.

But perhaps my mouth is not enough for you; perhaps my cock, when it is inside you and thrusting away, is not enough for you. You've asked me, sir, why I forbade the use of your new walking stick when you brought it home several months ago. I did not wish to tell you at the time, for the thought shamed me, but the head of the accessory looked to me so like a phallus that I could not bear to see you with it in public. I know I gave the impression that I disposed of the item, but the truth is, sir, that I have hidden it away for a time very much like my dream of having you against the wall of the foyer.

Perhaps I would lave you with my tongue until you were slick and pliant. Then perhaps I would reach into my suit coat pocket and retrieve a little pot of ointment, the kind we use in bed. Then I could reach over and pluck the rudely shaped walking stick from its stand and rub it against you from behind until you were arching your back into it and begging for it, for my cock, for anything so long as you were filled. I would fuck you with it, Bertram, until you fell to your knees on the carpet and could turn your head to take my own cock in your mouth while I worked it in and out of you. It would be glorious to see you with your lips wrapped round my prick and that slim stick buggering you in an unyielding rhythm. Even now I cannot write with a steady hand; I must pull myself off while thinking of these filthy words, much as you did in bed alone, wishing you could rut against your faithful servant. Lord, how I miss your smell, your delirious cries!

It is done now. I will go to sleep, and in the morning, if I have any measure of courage, I will seal this letter and post it with the hope that it brings you the same fleeting pleasure.

If I have said anything that offends, please forgive me, sir. I fear that I have gone mad with desire for you.

All my love,  
R.J.

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;

Telegram dated May 22, 10.19 from W1 London to _Marbella, La Comuidad Andalucía_:

OPENED LETTER STOP ALL IS WELL STOP MORE THAN WELL STOP WILL WRITE SOON STOP

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;

London, England  
May 23, 1924

My one, my only, my love of the ages, my rock, my Jeeves,

You brilliant, shining, gorgeous, wonderful, incredible, corking man, you! When I received your telegram prior to the letter's arrival, I wondered what the devil you might have sent me that you were so scared to have me see. I admit that I didn't actually plan on following your telegram's instructions for one moment. I awaited said letter anxiously, and it did not disappoint.

My god, old thing, how could you have been at all worried about penning such a letter? I had assumed you were embarrassed because you knew not what to say, but it appears that you are overflowing with naughty things to tell me. I could have survived on that single description of myself and a friend pleasuring you on top of the piano, but you fantastic specimen of delight, you kept going with more and more. I must have read the whole thing about ten times in rapid succession. I did about ten other things in rapid succession as well. Suffice to say, Jeeves, the wall might already need cleaning when you get home.

I cannot wait for this month to end so you can get back here, where you belong. Next year, perhaps you might be persuaded to include the young master in your annual holiday. I wouldn't want you to feel responsible for my care-taking, though, during that time, so I would freely accept a sort of switch in positions, what? I could play the servant to you, if you get my meaning. Of course, I'm no good at cooking, cleaning, mending, or running errands; you would have to make due with what few meagre talents I possess, but I don't believe you would have cause to complain. Would you like to have me there with you in Spain? I could spend the mornings sunbathing on the beach while you went shrimping, and when you returned at lunchtime, you could make a meal of my sun-warmed skin if it pleased you. But perhaps you're tired of Spain. Would you rather the snowy mountains of Switzerland? I have a notion that one might use a pinch of snow to heighten the experience of sucking on your cock. Would you like that, Jeeves? My hot mouth and quickly melting ice all along the length of you?

I'm shaking my head as I write this, Jeeves. All these things seem tame and silly when I compare it to your last letter. My word, how it still affects me.

I cannot for the life of me get that image of my walking stick from my mind. Have you really kept it hidden somewhere? I've searched the flat from top to bottom and can find no sign of it. Now I suppose you were merely pulling my leg, getting into the creative process, as it were. That is fine, Jeeves, but I rather wanted to have the stick sitting in its stand by the door. In case you decided to act upon your thoughts, so to speak. But no matter; I could find a multitude of objects that you might bugger me with, Jeeves. I'm told there's even a shop in Camden that specializes in such things. Could I saunter in there, I wonder, and pretend I am purchasing an object for use on some lady? Or would everyone in the shop see on my face what I had planned? Perhaps I will surprise you when you return home with a range of choices to use on me.

It's funny, isn't it, how thinking about your return also makes me think about the last night I spent in bed with you. You asked in your last letter if I really had been that wanton, and I believe that was more or less the case. I couldn't bear the idea that you'd be gone from the flat for four entire weeks. Not that you don't deserve four entire weeks, mind you; it just seems a dashed long time. So much has happened since you've been gone. I've had to fend off the attacks from various aunts, betrothed-to-bes, and fellow Drones needing advice. Missing you has made the whole thing that much harder, and I knew it would be before you even left, so if I forgot myself a bit that night, I'm sorry. Do you recall how long it took to get you alone that evening before you left, Jeeves? I am fond of old Tuppy, but I thought that dinner would last forever. I daresay I ripped some of our togs while disrobing, I was in such a hurry.

Jeeves, do me a kindness, would you? When you come home with these letters of mine hidden in your valise, will you read the letters I've saved from you? I want to hear your voice actually forming all these dirty words that you've put down so well. I don't believe I've ever heard the word 'fuck' pass your lips, and I'm aching to hear it now. Just thinking about how it must sound is enough to make me hard once more. If the Wooster body keeps this up, I might be broken by the time you come back. That is to say nothing of the thought of your perfect and noble tongue licking the young master in such unmentionable places. You would truly do such a thing if I asked? Or is it, like the walking stick, just words written in the heat of the moment? Give me a sign when you return to me, Jeeves; if you were speaking truthfully about using your fine mouth in such a way, let me know by some clever word or phrase. Better yet, do what you have fantasised about and take me in the foyer. I will wear the dressing gown, Jeeves, with nothing underneath it so you know I am serious. You must be neatly pressed as usual, Jeeves, but perhaps you will consent to not wearing any underthings. It would make things very easy, what?

It gives me a dashed uncomfortable cockstand just thinking of it now, Jeeves. As I must write with my right hand, I have to see to myself with my left, which feels odd and unfamiliar. I could almost imagine it was your hand, Jeeves, if it weren't so bally ungainly. Your hands are never so twitchy. Lord, just the thought that they might be, that perhaps your legendary mask might slip, and you might turn into an animal, fierce in your need, and I, trembling in your grasp, and wanting to be nowhere else, I would adore it, Jeeves, I would welcome it gladly--

I've come off quite violently now. I'm going to pop this in the post box without even reading it through; I hope it will find you well.

Travel safely as you come back to me, Jeeves. I love you.

Yours,  
Bertie

PS: I am quite serious about the dressing gown, if you are.

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;

Telegram dated May 26, 09.00 from _Marbella, La Comuidad Andalucía_ to W1 London:

LETTER RECEIVED STOP AM RETURNING ON NEXT BOAT STOP EXPECT ME THREE DAYS EARLY STOP YES RE DRESSING GOWN STOP

 

fin.

> Oh, this was nothing but unabashed filth! I hope you found it at least amusing and lolacious; it's hard to tell when something is sexy and when something is just WUT. James Joyce is a good example of that, I guess? Anyway, I hope you enjoyed. Feedback is appreciated as always. Thanks for reading!
> 
>  

 

Download the podfic here in [mb4 form](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/letter-for-letter-audiobook) courtesy [](http://cybel.livejournal.com/profile)[**cybel**](http://cybel.livejournal.com/) or as an [mp3](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/letter-for-letter).


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